


A Chance After Midnight

by chewysugar



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, New Year's Eve, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: There's half-an hour left until the New Year. Jason's got a drunk Dick to deal with, along with a secret that's been eating him up from the inside since before Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diefleder_tey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diefleder_tey/gifts).



Having grown up, at least partially, around the opulence and decadence of Wayne Manor, Jason knows he should be enjoying himself more. Everything in the ballroom is an ode to glamor—from the silver decorations and the gold garlands to the impeccably polished china and the collection of Gotham’s finest men and women. It’s so bright that it’s almost blinding, and the Venetian masks and couture clothes only add to the Dionyesian atmosphere. It’s a half hour to midnight and the partygoers have been drinking themselves to oblivion since before six.

Through it all—through the laughing and the boozing and the dancing with women whose names he never got nor would he remember if he’d wanted to—Jason keeps his eyes on one person and one person alone. But then again, he’s always had his eyes on Dick, always sought him out in a crowd or tried to find his voice above the clamor of a jam-packed room.

Tonight Dick is in rare form. So far Jason has seen him suck back at least seven glasses of vodka on the rocks, and the effect this has had on him is almost like witnessing an act of demonic possession. It’s not that Dick becomes a different person—it’s that he becomes an exaggerated version of himself.

From his comfortable seat in one of the only unoccupied alcoves of Wayne Manor’s grand ballroom, Jason watches with something like a smile on his face. Dick has Tim by the arms, trying to pull him into a lively waltz. Jason doesn’t know what amuses him more: the embarrassed flush on Tim’s face, the look of pure delight on Dick’s or the live band egging on the preceding’s by playing the liveliest, swingiest version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” that Jason has ever heard.

He likes seeing Dick happy, although acknowledging that is about as painful as pulling teeth. Not even the umpteenth scotch that Jason’s been nursing for the last several minutes can lift the slight melancholy from his soul. Once upon a time he would have called that feeling envy. Once upon a time that feeling caused him to hate to the point of wishing murder.

But insight is a miracle cure for the broken minded, and nearly losing his life once more gave him insight in spades. This is his family, his home: these walls housed him when all he’d ever known was the streets. The people here loved him, have never ceased trying to help him. It hurt like a great, filthy, jagged razor slitting him from throat to belly when he first began to understand these things.

Now the only thing that hurts, the only ache he feels, is the longing for something he can never have. And that something is currently flat on its ass in the middle of the ballroom, laughing at having trapped over his own feet as Helena and Conner move to help him up.

It would be a lie to say that Jason doesn’t know when he started to see Dick Grayson in this light. Those first weeks back in the fold of the family didn’t result in a miracle turnaround; there was still distrust, still old wounds both physical and otherwise that had to heal. And yet it was Dick out of them all who kept returning Jason’s hesitation and moments of lashing out with patience and understanding.

Jason wanted to hate him at first for that—wanted to hate Dick’s easy charisma and optimism for its perceived facetiousness. But he was tired of hate, of the red-hot, poisoning burn of it. 

Time healed everything and changed Jason to the point that, by Halloween, he was enjoying his free time sparring with Dick and going on the prowl in one of Gotham’s many nightclubs. Dick thought it was nothing, just Jason wanting to enjoy his company, be his wing man. And at first, Jason had thought that as well. It was only in moments of clarity that he knew he was living a lie.

It was all an excuse: the sparring, to feel Dick’s body pressing against his, to inhale the smell of his skin and sweat. Those nights that bled into mornings were reasons to see Dick as Jason loved seeing him most: laughing, carefree, enjoying the part of their lives that wasn’t devoted to the night and the hell of Gotham City.

Tonight is just another one of those nights—another chance to see Dick happy, and judging from the broad smile on his rosy face, he’s on top of the world.

Jason hefts a sigh lost under the buzz of conversation and the swinging jazz band. In this sea of black-suited men and beautifully dressed women he’s persona non-grata and that suits him perfectly fine at the moment.

The hem of his pants rides up as he shifts in his seat. He finds himself staring at the bright red and green socks that he’s elected to wear for the New Year’s Eve party. Gotham’s nobility would likely have a collective aneurysm if they saw Bruce Wayne’s prodigal son not conforming to fashion standards, but Jason has never given a shit for dressing to the nines. Not even when he first came to Wayne Manor did he ever enjoying forcing himself into the tuxedos and sweater-vests that Bruce and Alfred insisted he wear for appearance’s sake.

Besides, he has a special reason for wearing these gaudy socks—a reason that is currently trying to challenge a thoroughly unimpressed Conner Kent to an arm wrestling match.

It was Christmas when Dick gave Jason the socks. Jason, never having quite understood why every man, women, child and partridge in a pear tree lost 1their lid over the holidays, had spent the day skulking around the few watering holes in Gotham that were open. He’d thought himself sufficiently well out of the festivities, even if hearing “Do They Know It’s Christmastime” eighty-three times in a period of fourteen hours had driven a hot iron spike into the gray matter of his brain. 

Home had seemed a long way away in the bleak weather and shadowy, snow-blanketed streets. When he’d finally snuck into Wayne Manor near midnight, it had been to find a plate of that night’s sumptuous dinner waiting for him—and one Dick Grayson leaning against the kitchen counter with a knowing smirk on his handsome face.

“We missed you today.”

Jason had wanted to flee back into the snowy Christmas night the second he caught sight of Dick. But not wanting to give any indication of discomfiture, he’d stayed his ground with a casual scoff.

“We? What are you, a law partner now? Send me to hell for not buying into the lights and tinsel, Dickybird. Christmas never did much for me at any point of my life. Day after was a bit different since everyone’s at home beating their kids.”

“Charming.” All the lights were down except the string of Christmas lights Alfred and Damian had tacked up around the windows in the kitchen. The gentle, multi-colored glow and play of shadows on Dick’s face had had the effect of making him look like some kind of godly vision out of Greek mythology—a fact not at all helped by Jason having come upon him in nothing but his flannel pajama bottoms.

Jason had kept his eyes averted, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed in the Saran wrap covering the turkey, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts that Alfred had likely labored over for hours that day. But again, Dick hadn’t let him get away with it, and in a matter of moments Jason had found himself holding a lumpy package wrapped in silver and blue Christmas paper.

“The hell’s this?” It was sheer panic masked as indifference. And Dick, because he knew Jason so well, didn’t buy it for a dime.

“That would be a Christmas present, Isaac Newton. Mine, to you. ‘Cause, y’know, people do actually do nice shit for each other this time of year.”

It was a mercy and a blessing that the lights were so dim, otherwise Dick may have seen the flush creeping into Jason’s cheeks—might have seen the momentary softness that came over his eyes or even the barely-there tremble of his fingers as he unwrapped the gift.

“Socks?” Jason stared at them, at the stitched green Christmas trees and holly boughs over the red-as-berries fabric.

Dick snorted. “You were expecting turnips?”

“No, it’s just…I’ve never gotten something like this before.”

“What? Socks?”

Jason swallowed a lump in his throat that he tried to tell himself was only due to the last whiskey sour he’d had coming back for revenge. “No. Uh, a Christmas present, actually.”

Dick frowned. “What? Bruce must’ve…” His voice died away, and Jason clenched his finger around the socks in an attempt to quell the momentary spike of anger.

He’d only ever spent one Christmas at Wayne Manor before being beaten to death by The Joker. And that Christmas had been spent hunting down members of a rising mafia syndicate all the way to Metropolis. The hunt had been so consuming, stretching for weeks, that Jason had only noticed that he’d missed the holidays when, upon returning to Gotham, he’d seen a sign near the turnpike welcoming in the New Year.

What had passed between himself and Dick in the kitchen that night had started a shift somewhere in the fringe’s of Jason’s mind. He’d worn the socks only once before the New Year’s Eve party, too terrified of wearing them out to go more than that. Every time he’d passed Dick in the halls or run into him during patrol, he’d felt that prickle in his veins, as f the very thought of the former Robin was enough to send electricity through his blood.

It was almost too much to bear and now, sitting off to the side of frivolity and joy as he usually does, Jason feels a sense of solace from the socks. It’s not just that they’re comfortable, or that they’re warm or soft as down—it’s that they were a gift; a gift from Dick Grayson. Jason woke up the day after Christmas to gifts from Tim, Barbara, Damian, Alfred and, most shockingly, Bruce himself. But none of them had had the effect that Dick’s gift had.

A loud clatter and several shrieks draw Jason’s begrudging attention back to the party. Dick has not only lost his arm-wrestling match against Tim’s Kryptonian, possible boyfriend, he’s lost spectacularly, and is now splayed on the floor again with the expensive drink of the hour soaking into his tuxedo.

Everyone is laughing. Even Dick, but for some reason Jason doesn’t find it remotely funny, not least of which because Dick can’t seem to stand up straight again. Bruce, standing off to the side and pretending to be tipsy, is laughing too, and somehow that indifference spurs Jason into action.

Despite the fact that he’s been sucking back liquor just as hard as Dick has all night, Jason gets to his feet and maneuvers through the crowd of laughing partiers. He started hitting the bottle when most kids his age were in retainers; liquor doesn’t affect him the way it once did.

He holds a hand out, and Dick takes it with a boisterous laugh. “Ah, my knight in shining Armani. Where’s your horse, Jason?”

“Gonna be up your ass if you don’t get off the floor, numbnuts.” It’s okay to say this because to everyone here, they’re brothers. They’re supposed to rib each other in moments like this. Jason pulls Dick to his feet, and then immediately throws an arm around his back to steady him.

Dick grins like Jason just fired off a George Carlin punch line. “Aw, he likes me,” he says to no one in particular.

“He’s also getting you the hell out of here,” Jason mutters.

“But the ball hasn’t dropped yet!” Dick whines as Jason walks him to the double doors of the ballroom. Then he bursts into a fit of giggles at the double entendre in his words.

Jason tries not to breathe in Dick’s scent as he helps him across the entrance hall and up the stairs, but at such close proximity it’s nearly impossible not to: the leathery-cinnamon whiff of his _Viktor and Rolf_ cologne; the musk of sweat from dancing around the crowded ballroom and the heady tang of vodka on his breath. Given that Dick is all but leaning into Jason as they make their way towards his bedroom on the second floor, Jason is surprised he hasn’t thrown restraint to the winds, pressed Dick into the nearest wall and gone to town on him.

Dick manages to cross the threshold to his room before he starts to teeter again.

“Jesus.” Jason redoubles his grip, something that Dick seems to find endlessly amusing.

“M’gonna be fine, Jaybird. Jus’…my guts kinda feel like spaghetti is all.”

Jason takes one look at Dick’s face, only moments ago flush with color from the party, and takes about a microsecond to realize that the once and former Robin is going to upchuck all over the front of both of their tuxedos if he doesn’t do some quick footwork.

He hauls ass—or rather, Dick—across the plush, pristine carpet to the adjoining bathroom. Dick manages to keep it together until Jason has him in front of the toilet. Then he’s hunched over and letting loose. Jason’s seen enough blood and guts and other bodily fluids, both human and otherwise, to not be at all squeamish by his adoptive brother heaving over the commode. He holds Dick’s thick, dark hair out of his face; finds himself rubbing smooth, soothing circles into the back of Dick’s tux. Worry sets in after a few moments because it seems as if Dick is literally going to empty his guts before the dawning of the New Year.

Then it’s over, and Dick is sagging against the tiled wall, his face ashen and sweaty. There’s silence between them, awkward and lingering and only punctuated by the occasional, muffled exaltation from the party below.

“Sorry.” Dick sounds like he’s run from Gotham to Central City and back; his gaze is fixed on the glass door of his walk-in shower, all shame and self-loathing. Jason won’t stand for that because Dick Grayson is the last person in the world who should ever hate himself.

“Whatever.” The carelessness has to come back because, heaven forbid, Jason Todd actually lets something like humanity seep through the cracks of his carefully constructed exterior. “Not everyone can hold their liquor. ‘Specially not if they suck back an entire Pabst vat of the stuff.”

Dick tries to get to his feet, bracing a hand on the back of the toilet. He slips and lands flat on his ass for the third time that night. Jason makes to help him up, and Dick lets him even though Jason’s sure it goes against the Dick Grayson Code of Manly Swagger.

“Need to clean up,” Dick says. “I smell like a distillery and then some.”

Jason snorts, still holding Dick up by the arm. “A distillery that wears five-hundred dollar cologne.”

Dick lets out a groan and Jason is torn between the erotic charge that the sound sends through his body, and legitimate concern for the pale-faced, bleary-eyed man who is all but falling into his arms in order to stand up straight.

“C’mon.” Jason tries to make Dick stand on his own two feet because the nearness is getting to be too much for his nerves. “Gotta climb into bed, Dickybird.”

“Need a shower.” And to Jason’s mingled mortification and surprise, Dick manages to right himself enough to unbutton his tux and start stripping down. It’s completely unexpected, and for a moment Jason just stands with his mouth open like a bull frog. Dick steadies himself with a hand on the towel rack, but only gets as far as stripping out of his tuxedo and undershirt before vertigo comes back with a vengeance.

“Fuck.” He sags against the wall, and Jason is instantly at his side, hands resting on Dick’s broad shoulder and back of his neck. Dick’s skin is clammy, but even then Jason can’t help but marvel at the sinewy strength he feels under his fingers.

“Do you need—“ The words get stuck in Jason’s throat. He knows exactly what Dick needs, but he’ll sing “Cat’s in the Cradle” to Bruce and mean every last verse before he lets himself offer his services to help Dick undress and get into the shower.

But Dick doesn’t know about these secrets, these demons that have haunted Jason since he was brought back into the fold. Jason’s just a brother to him, and brothers help each other in cases like this.

“Yeah.” Dick grins a little. “Sorry to have to add more scars to your psyche.”

Jason manages to clear his throat. “Yeah, well, you tell anyone about this and you’ll have a few more scars on your body to remember me by.”

“Sure thing. Now do me a solid and get on your knees.” Dick can’t be as hammered and weak as all that if he can muster up that kind of line, or the Cheshire cat grin that accompanies it. 

“Fuck.” It’s a strangled whisper that escapes Jason’s lips in spite of his every effort to keep it in. He gets down on one knee because being on both would just be too damn much to take. He keeps his breathing even, focusing on years of self-taught anger management to stop his pulse from racing. He stares fixedly at the monogrammed towels hanging from the rack behind Dick as he goes to.

But sound is his greatest enemy. The clinking of metal on metal as he unfastens Dick’s belt, and the sliding of leather against fabric as he pulls it from the loops wreak utter havoc on his brain. And when he’s able to get Dick’s fly open, scent adds its power to the battle: the faint, natural musk of Dick’s groin nearly knocks Jason backwards. It’s with an almost obscene violence that he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of Dick’s boxers and yanks them down.

Then he’s standing up, still determinedly finding patterns in the tiles of the bathroom wall, and stepping away as Dick clambers out of the pile of clothes at his feet.

He’s expecting Dick to brush this off with some cocky remark. Hell, Jason almost wants him to because at least that way they’ll be in familiar territory. But Dick just gives him a “thank you” that sounds way too genuine for Jason to feel comfortable with. Jason’s all but ready to hightail it out of the bathroom, but he forgets for a moment that there’s a mirror behind him. He turns to leave, and in doing so, catches sight of Dick entering the spacious shower…or rather, Dick’s entire naked body as he gets into the shower: the strong, broadness of his shoulders; the steely strength of his back and the firm globes of his ass.

Jason feels a chain reaction wired from his brain to his balls go off. Before he can do anything he knows he’ll regret, he leaves the bathroom, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet as he clears the space between himself and the door.

He shuts out the noise of the shower and the temptation of seeing Dick standing naked under the spray. His heart is racing like he just took a hit of pure heroin. He closes his eyes and tries to calm down, but all he can see is fleeting images of Dick’s naked body.

Jason has never wanted to beat himself to a bloody pulp more than in this moment. Long ago he had it drilled into him that moments of vulnerability such as this only lead to disaster; that there’s no sense in getting what he wants if it’ll be ripped away in the end. And yet he can’t help the longing, the wanting—the burning need for the beautiful man in the bathroom behind him.

He glances down at his shoes; at the festive socks that he can just see below his dress pants. He’s aware, then, of how warm he feels, how uncomfortably restraining his damn penguin suit is. He yanks at his bow tie and all but rips his jacket open, sinking onto the edge of the California King-size in the middle of the room. His shoes go next: a collective six grand of quality leather kicked across the carpet like an empty soda can on a dank street. 

As the sounds of the party from below mingle with the rush of water from the bathroom, Jason stares at his socks. He wiggles his toes, mulling over just how screwed up things have gotten since Dick gave him this gift less than a week ago.

It’s almost funny, even funnier now that Jason thinks about the little scene that transpired in the bathroom. This, after everything he’s been through, is what it takes to make him feel like he has a massive Achilles heel for the world to see. It’s stupid, enough to make him laugh if it also wasn’t so damn exhausting. He and Dick live together, train together and fight evil together. Jason knows that things changed when he found his way back to his family—he just never realized how much they’d changed until that Christmas night.

And now this.

Sighing, he flops back onto the covers, forcing himself to forget where he is for a moment. Letting his mind wander to the fact that he’s lying on top of the covers that Dick sleeps, fucks and jerks off under would only lead him to ruin. So he lays there, eyes closed, the sounds of the party and the shower filling his ears. It’s almost midnight; a new year will dawn in less than ten minutes, but he’ll still be the same old Jason Todd—same damage, same hang-ups, and same soul-crushing loneliness.

The water stops running, but Jason doesn’t move. He doesn’t know what he wants to do, and given that his mind operates at a constant level of speed-chess of decisive acting it’s almost frightening to be in this rock-and-hard-place impasse. Only when the door to the bathroom opens, letting out a rush of muggy, humid air that smells like an all-too familiar person is he spurred into even the most remote of activity. He opens his eyes and looks to the right, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Dick’s dry, certainly, and running a towel through his hair. But he isn’t dressed. Not even a washcloth is held in front of his junk as he strides with uneasy steps across the room.

Blistering heat envelops Jason’s face. It’s as if Dick’s body is pulling him in like a tractor beam; he can’t look away. Wildly, he wonders if maybe Dick hasn’t seen him. But then Dick’s cracking a bleary-eyed smile and saying, “Remind me to make my New Year’s resolution to not take hot showers for granted.”

Jason wonders if he swallowed epoxy at some point because his tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. Dick collapses onto the opposite side of the bed, naked as the day he was born and seemingly oblivious to the effect his body is having on Jason. It’s as if millions of electric pulses are emanating from Dick’s body. The warmth of him, the bare nearness, is enough to completely fry any coherent thought in Jason’s brain.

He grunts a reply, staring with all his might at the ceiling; he’s stolen enough fleeting glances at Dick over the months—helpless things that tend to send his eyes flicking to Dick’s exposed skin in the showers after training, or when dressing down after a night on patrol.

Putting a gun to his own nutsack and blasting away the chance to ever have children would be preferable to looking at Dick’s unashamed and brazen nudity now.

Dick chuckles. “Articulate til the very end of the year, huh Jaybird?”

Somehow Jason separates his tongues from the top of his mouth. “Still time left.”

Dick yawns, and Jason’s treacherous gaze move to him quickly enough to see that Dick’s got an arm over his eyes; he’ll be out like a light in second if there’s such thing as a kind and loving God. “Still time to get your own resolution in,” Dick mumbles. “Y’know? Do something better in the New Year than you did before?”

Jason stares at his festive socks. From below comes to the sudden sound of dozens and dozens of voices counting down from sixty.

What could he do better? The past year has been one unexpected turn after another. Jason knows that he’s changed—he only hasn’t appreciated it until this moment, with the object of his secret, burning something or other passed out and naked next to him. It’s not just that Dick is so fucking perfect, it’s that he’s the reason for this change, for this understanding in Jason’s own spirit: he doesn’t have to castigate himself to be redeemed; he doesn’t have to be a paragon of perfection and justice the way he wanted to be for Bruce when he was a naïve and angry pre-teen, as long as he gets up and tries every damn day to do something better.

And what better day to start than the first day of a virgin year?

The crowd downstairs is practically screaming now.

“ _Ten! Nine_ …”

Jason turns so he’s looking fully at Dick, whose arm has lolled to the side, leaving his face exposed, all peaceful and relaxed in his intoxicated sleep.

“… _eight…seven_ …”

It’s okay if he lets go of his carefully wrought restraints, just for this. Just for now. He sits up, feeling as if he’s about to jump off the highest building in Gotham.

“… _six…five…four_ …”

Jason wets his lips. His heart is beating a drum line in his ears. He has to do this, has to let himself be honest for one damn second—to let himself know happiness, even if it’s so fleeting it may well not even exist. 

“… _three…two…one!”_

A thunder of noise all but rattles the windowpanes. Jason takes the plunge and presses his lips to Dick’s. The warmth and softness are unlike anything Jason has ever known—so perfect that he wants to end the kiss before it begins for fear of losing something so precious and so right.

But he doesn’t. He lets himself linger, allows himself to surrender to the dream of what it would be like to kiss this wonderful, kind man ever day under sober circumstances.

Then the dream turns to reality and then careens to cold dread when Dick’s lips part in surprise. He startles awake, ocean blue eyes meeting Jason’s steely ones. There’s shock and confusion beyond the obvious drunken daze.

Jason tears his lips way and sits up. Dick sits up as well, and Jason feels the weight of the other man’s gaze like a vice on the back of his neck.

“Jason?” He doesn’t sound pissed or disgusted—just completely stunned, as if Jason has confessed to a heinous crime.

And Jason, knowing that he crossed the line and hating himself for giving into something so stupid, can’t bear to linger any further. He stands up, nearly tripping over his socked feet. Refusing to look at Dick, Jason all but stumbles to collect his tux jacket and shoes. “Sorry.” He’s breathless, and he hates that even more. “I just…I’m…” He doesn’t know what to say. What did he think would happen? That Gotham’s other most notorious bachelor would give up on a life of chasing skirts for someone who, until quite recently, wanted to see him dead?

Jason makes it to the door before he remembers Dick’s words about the New Year. The jazzy strains of “ _Auld Lang Syne_ ” can be heard clear from the ballroom downstairs, and Jason decides to do the thing properly. After all, if the New Year is going to start with him having brought something to ruin, he’d rather let the bomb go off in its entirety than fool himself into thinking anything is going to survive.

Jacket and shoes under his arm, he stops at the door and turns back to the room. Dick is still upright, his expression that of a man hit over the head with a two-by-four. Jason makes himself meet Dick’s gaze because, again, he wants to screw this up the right way.

“It’s just that, y’know, I’m…I’m kind of in love with you, and I thought I should least be up front about it.”

Dick swallows, a frown creasing his handsome face. “You… _love_ me?”

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t really know what to say to that.”

It’s astounding that people are partying below them while Jason is throwing a Molotov onto the kindling he’s laid on the life he just got back at Wayne Manor.

Jason exhales, letting go of the disappointment he shouldn't even be feeling. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.” And with that he’s out the door, his mind already kicking into turbo over how this is going to play out now that it’s in the open. A million scenarios whir through his brain at so loud a pitch that the snide voice telling him what a sentimental fuck up he is almost drowns out the cheers and music from the ballroom.

He’s at the stairs to the third floor and the promise of his bedroom when the door opens behind him. He could so easily cross the distance to the stairs and close out anything that could happen next. But Jason’s learning that he’s more of a fool than he used to think; he turns around, braced for the inevitable impact.

Obviously Dick’s taking this very seriously because he hasn’t dressed: he’s got the bed sheet wrapped around his waist, the royal blue pure Egyptian cotton trailing along the floor behind him like Princess Diana’s bridal train.

“Hey!” Dick clears the space between them, and Jason can’t tell whether or not he’s angry. “You can’t just say something like that to somebody and then walk away from them!”

Heat flushes across Jason’s face. He can’t look away, even though every carefully honed and developed instinct is telling him to run; that this is dangerous and completely uncharted territory.

But it’s also Dick, and Dick has a way of making people feel safe whether they want to or not. There’s barely enough room for air to pass between them, and the heat and fresh scent of Dick’s skin is making it hard for Jason to concentrate.

“You love me.” It’s a statement. Dick’s eyes search Jason’s face, for what Jason doesn’t know. All he knows is that they’re on the stairs and Dick’s only got a sheet protecting his modesty from view; there are people downstairs and Jason couldn’t give a flying fuck if anyone sees what happens next.

Dick smiles then, a thing as soft as snow. He brushes his knuckles against Jason’s jaw, and Jason feels like his skin is going to blister from that touch. “You love me…”

“Y-yeah.” It’s all Jason can say because he feels like the oxygen is being siphoned out of his lungs.

Dick’s smile widens even though he looks almost incredulous. Jason panics for a moment, waiting for the rebuke. Then…

“Where the hell have you been, huh Jason? I’ve been looking for you.”

Something slides into place in the confused fog of Jason’s mind. He wonders if maybe all the women and the partying were just a way of hiding. And why wouldn’t it have been? He, himself, hid behind rage and hurt and a red hood for so long that he almost forgot himself. Why wouldn’t Dick Grayson also see the need to hide?

He could be lying, but his gaze is too steadfast, his smile too warm.

Jason grins, and tries to look down at his socks, but Dick tips his chin so that there’s nowhere else to look but at those genuine blue eyes. “You know me, Dickybird.” It’s the last bit of bravado Jason can muster under the circumstances. “Always have to make things difficult.”

Dick laughs. Then he’s kissing Jason, deep and searching and so damn right; a kiss like a promise of something changing; like a hope for the New Year. They break apart, and Dick laughs, his big, calloused hand taking Jason by the wrist. “Come on. I’m a little too liquored up for anything too frisky, but I’m not going to turn my nose up at falling asleep with you. If that’s what you want, at least.” 

“Couldn’t ask for anything more.” And with that they’re hurrying across the floor and back to Dick’s room. The sheet falls from Dick’s waist before the door is closed; Jason’s got the rest of his clothes off in half the time it takes for Dick to climb into bed. But he keeps the socks on, feeling warm as toast and, for the first time in a long time, like he belongs as he crawls into bed with Dick.

The other man’s arm slides under Jason’s back and holds him close. AS the din from the ballroom below carries on and the snow falls outside, Jason finds that he doesn’t even care that this isn’t sex.

It’s another gift, and one that, like his socks, he isn’t going to take for granted in this New Year.


End file.
